


And then the songbirds take flight

by elzierav



Series: Elz's Xmas 2020 gift fics [4]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Amnesia, Birds, Clover Ebi needs a hug, Croissants, Doctor Clover, Gift Fic, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Torture, James Ironwood Needs a Hug, M/M, Qrow Branwen Needs a Hug, Qrow Branwen is a badass, Recovery, Soup, Taiyang Xiao Long Needs a Hug, Zwei is a good boi, baker Taiyang, but not explicitly shown, detective qrow, mentions of torture, police officer James
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28345557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzierav/pseuds/elzierav
Summary: There is a flicker of light, a fluttering sound. Like a flock of birds, ready to take flight.Is it a dream? A hallucination? An apparition? Is this what death sounds like?This can’t be. Death can’t be that painful. Qrow feels pain, therefore he must be alive. There is pain, and that is the only certainty. There is pain through every muscle, every nerve, every bone of his body. His body is no more a concrete construct, it is an abstract amalgamation of reds, blues, and pains. His skin is splattered in pain, his mind is pain, his world is pure pain. All he sees is pain, pain and the distant flickering of light, and the sickly gleam of yellow eyes through the darkness.“Why, little songbird, why?”
Relationships: Clover Ebi/James Ironwood, James Ironwood/Taiyang Xiao Long, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi/James Ironwood/Taiyang Xiao Long, Qrow Branwen/James Ironwood, Qrow Branwen/Taiyang Xiao Long
Series: Elz's Xmas 2020 gift fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2088366
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	And then the songbirds take flight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AndyAstral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndyAstral/gifts).



> Merry xmas to my dearest friend Andy! (It's still boxing day here so I reckon it counts?) Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Warnings: mentioned, but not explicitly shown violence. Read the tags.

There is a flicker of light, a fluttering sound. Like a flock of birds, ready to take flight.

Is it a dream? A hallucination? An apparition? Is this what death sounds like?

This can’t be. Death can’t be that painful. Qrow feels pain, therefore he must be alive. There is pain, and that is the only certainty. There is pain through every muscle, every nerve, every bone of his body. His body is no more a concrete construct, it is an abstract amalgamation of reds, blues, and pains. His skin is splattered in pain, his mind is pain, his world is pure pain. All he sees is pain, pain and the distant flickering of light, and the sickly gleam of yellow eyes through the darkness.

“Why, little songbird, why?”

There is a crazed tone in his captor’s crackling voice, echoing through the damp, putrid darkness of the sewers where Qrow is kept captive. There is a delirious light in the serial killer’s golden eyes, admiring the blossoms of red across the detective’s pallid skin like he’s stargazing and connecting constellations in the dark. The criminal is contemplating his handiwork, making sure each star is at its correct place on the bound, bruised, bloodied, broken body - it is a work of art, and the goddess will be pleased. A smear of starlight out of place, however, and the mere thought of the godly wrath is enough to make him lose his mind...

How long has Qrow been held there? How long since he last saw the stars, out in the open? Maybe hours, maybe days, maybe more. Qrow is tired, all he feels is pain, and even that has started to feel numb. He barely even remembers why any more.

“Why did you let yourself be caged, pretty songbird?” 

“I knew you held your victims captive in the sewers while you tortured them, Callows,” Qrow spits - sputtering red onto his captor’s coat, the stain weakly glimmering in the light of the killer’s oil lamp. “Wasn’t hard to tell, given the stench of their bodies.”

There is a pressure of fingers against Qrow’s stubbled jaw, there is a warning of sharp fingernails. Qrow’s stomach lurches, anticipating the onslaught of pain that sometimes follows, sometimes not. Callows is an unpredictable man, which has made him all the harder to catch since he started hiding in the sewer network of Mantle. 

But this time, the pain doesn’t come. This time, the criminal is too intrigued about every syllable pouring down Qrow’s lips to dare interrupt. The detective swallows with difficulty, his parched throat throbbing with pain as he knows full well his life hangs on to a thread, and that is his capacity to entertain his captor, to sing for him, to be an interesting little songbird...

“But there was something else on the cadavers of your victims,” he continues. “A fine white powder.”

“Fascinating.”

“Flour. That powder’s all flour. How many drains are there in Mantle just outside bakeries?”

“What a ludicrous assumption that I should know such a thing!” Callows bemoans, suddenly fascinated by his own unkempt manicure. 

“Seven. Seven bakeries with drains right outside. I knew your hide-out was in the sewers under one of these, but I couldn’t tell which one. So I used myself as bait and hope you’d capture me. Of course, you took the bait, and the rest’s history.”

“History? But history won’t remember that, no one will realise you’ve found Tyrian Callows, the most infamous murderer in Mantle, because now what? You’re all shackled up, no one would hear if you called for help, and even if I untied you, you wouldn’t be able to take a single step without falling over and begging for my help! No one will find us now, no one will come arrest me or rescue you, and I’ll have you all to myself, a pretty songbird to sing for my ears only. And when I’m done with you, my goddess will be very pleased to see what I’ve done with the great detective Branwen!”

A mad, almost otherworldly cackle follows, rippling down the hollow stone tunnels. Only silence responds, the birds stirring and the carriages passing through the cobbled streets overhead are but a distant dream.

“That’s what you think,” Qrow coughs after a painful pause. “But wanna hear a secret?”

“I love secrets! My Queen loves secrets, and she shall be pleased!”

A dangerous flicker within yellow irises as the murderer’s lips curl up in a cruel smile.

“I have a present for you. Look in the breast pocket of my coat.”

The coat isn’t on Qrow’s bound body, in fact none of his garments remain. But Tyrian has carefully kept them in a nearby pile, carefully sniffing the fabric along each sleeve as if the scent of his captive is a delectable elixir, a delicate bird song, a dream of paradise lost. When he reaches the pocket, however, his nose wrinkles in dismay. 

“What’s that? A handful of dust?”

“Can’t you see?” the detective groans at the top of his tired lungs, but all that comes out is a hoarse whisper. “Get the lamp closer.”

Hissing in disappointment, the serial killer does as he’s told. And then, drawing a deep breath of reeking air, Qrow blows a brief breeze. 

Some of the dusty powder touches the lamp’s flame. 

And then there is a spark. Tyrian’s eyes widen in panic as the substance he recognises as gunpowder crackles - and then, there is light. 

The sewers are filled with light, the world is filled with light, everything is pure light. Fireworks shake the humid walls, the floor, the ceiling around them in the wake of the deafening explosion. 

Overground, the flour on the cobbles trembles. The flour comes from discarded bread that the bakers throw out at the end of the day, from everything they couldn’t sell before it starts going stale. The bread attracts beggars, people of all ages, and birds. Pigeons, crows, doves, perhaps even songbirds - myriads of birds.

And then, startled by the noise, the birds just above the drain take flight. 

As soon as he regains his spirits, Tyrian picks up his personal effects and scampers off down the sewers, leaving his prisoner chained. But he does not get to run far. Not when Qrow warned the police to watch out for any flocks of birds departing en masse from before one of seven bakeries. Not when Qrow told them to await that signal and send reinforcements as soon as possible. Not when he is cornered, outsmarted, outmatched, and he knows it very well. 

Qrow’s ears barely perceive the sound of rapid footsteps. Gunshots echo, shouts, voices - and then the secure click of metal manacles. The prisoner exhales shakily - perhaps now he is safe, perhaps he is finally, finally safe. 

Only when the vague silhouette of the Atlas and Mantle police chief emerges into his hazy field of vision, drawing a blade to cut his restraints, only when a physician catches him before he can fall, vaguely familiar aqua eyes considering his broken form with concern, does Qrow dream he might perhaps be safe. Only then does he finally close his eyes, surrendering to a fitful sleep.

* * *

“Qrow? Qrow, can you hear me?” Dr. Clover Ebi calls out, simultaneously checking the injured detective’s pulse as the policemen scurry around them, ready to transport the criminal away in a secure carriage.

“Hrmmmm.”

“Detective Branwen? Were you able to find any proof that Callows works with the Salem organisation?” the police chief asks behind Clover’s shoulder, his evening blue gaze hard as steel. 

“Chief Ironwood, now isn’t the time,” the doctor reprimands quietly. “He’s delirious, famished, and dehydrated. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“Then I shall go to the bakery and get him tea and pastries,” Ironwood replies, the resolved clatter of his heavy boots resonating on the pavement.

“No tea - that might burn him,” Ebi says, his expression softening ever so slightly, relieved by the chief’s determination to help however he can.

“Coffee then?”

The physician only lets out a loud exhale as a response, wishing that the stubborn would even listen. 

But constant chatter is all that reaches James Ironwood’s ears as he approaches the bakery, surrounded by the delicious scent of warm bread and crowned with a rusty metal sign painted with a picture of a golden dragon curled around a loaf of bread. The queue for baked goods reaches all the way to the street, everyone commenting to their neighbour on the lively arrest that just unfolded under their eyes, the policemen and Clover doing their best to shield the injured and semi-conscious detective from the eyes of onlookers. 

Fortunately, the baker, a shapely, middle-aged blonde man, is efficient and affable when serving James, quickly handing him a croissant and a bottle of rum. A strange warmth reaches Ironwood’s cheeks as he gives the bakery’s owner his thanks, earning a playful wink in return.

Racing back to Clover and Qrow, the policeman is met with a concerned stare from solemn teal eyes.

“It’s too late, Qrow just lost consciousness,” the physician sighs, cradling the detective in his lap. 

“Is his condition critical? Should we transport him to hospital?”

“None of his vital organs seem compromised, but his hip bone appears damaged, and I fear that placing him in a carriage will do more harm than good. Perhaps we could carry him on foot on a stretcher...”

“A storm is coming up,” James points out, wiping a rain droplet from his cheekbone as the wind howls through the branches. “The bakery has a small dependency upstairs, perhaps we could transport Branwen for the night and then move him to hospital tomorrow. I hope the baker proves to be a hospitable man.”

“I haven’t met him, but I trust your judgement,” Clover replies, confident in James’s instincts concerning people and keen eye for detail after years of working together. 

“This croissant will go soft and stale if no one eats it,” the police officer remarks flatly, inspecting the appetising viennoiserie leaking butter onto his silky white gloves. 

“... then let’s share?”

When Clover tugs on his end of the pastry, James can feel the warmth of the doctor’s fingers as their knuckles touch, even through his gloves. And perhaps the contact lingers rather unnecessarily. 

Looking pointedly away, Ironwood bites into his half croissant, savouring the crusty exterior and tender, buttery core that melts upon his tongue. After all, perhaps he is allowed to enjoy a pastry after a successful mission, after arresting Mantle’s most wanted serial killer thanks to Qrow’s self-sacrificial strategy. After all, perhaps even the chief of police is allowed to enjoy the simple things in life, like croissants and attractive green-eyed doctors watching him eat. 

“You’ve got a crumb here,” Clover remarks, gesturing to his chin. “Hey, let me help.”

The doctor’s fingers are delicate, moving with surgical precision as they remove the wayward pastry lost in James’s dark beard. But then, why do his digits move upward, briefly cupping the chief’s jawline, before darting away?

Ironwood finds no time to address the silent question, for they should move Qrow before the storm rises.

* * *

Taiyang Xiao Long absolutely does not mind hosting Qrow in his spare room above the bakery. In fact, he does enjoy the company, since his daughters left for their apprenticeships in Vale. Tai gladly shares his meals with the recovering detective, who always has snarky stories to tell, even though his hands are still rather shaky despite the fact he stubbornly refuses to be spoon fed the bread bowl broth that the baker prepared.

What Tai does mind, however, are the police and medics incessantly roaming around his bakery. Not that tall, bearded, ruggedly handsome police captains or brawny, bare-armed, teal-eyed doctors are particularly bothersome, but their visits at odd hours and loud footsteps as if they own the place sometimes irk the baker’s mind. Qrow protests just as much against Dr. Ebi’s methods as he does against Taiyang’s spoon feeding, lashing out like a wounded wild animal who has been caged. Sometimes, the blonde’s heart sinks as he sees the physician administer his patient a dose of sedative to carry him around and change his cast and numerous bandages. 

With the police, the detective is equally uncooperative, much to Ironwood’s dismay. Clover has justified Qrow’s amnesia of what exactly transpired in the sewers as a natural response to the trauma and hardships he went through at the hands of Callows. Taiyang recognises that name - who doesn’t, after the trail of bodies the criminal left behind him. The sound of that name alone elicits goosebumps, and the baker’s stomach churns at the mere thought of what Qrow could have suffered. 

The policeman wants information, and the doctor wants to see progress - and neither of them seem to perceive the value of patience, the patience it takes for wounds of the body and mind to heal, the patience it takes for bread dough to rise, the patience it takes for yeast to grow. 

Tai, meanwhile, is always there on sunny days when Qrow makes progress, haphazardly walking around in crutches to go wash and shave his face. Tai is always there on humid days where Qrow’s pain prevents him from moving, and he needs to be carried and bathed and dried with the utmost care, for recovery is not a linear process, and some injuries are never healed by time - but it’s all right, because Tai is there to catch him if he falls. 

That’s the last Tai could do, for this man he’s come to admire and respect for everything he’s done, everything he’s gone through, while that spark still lives on in his tired vermillion eyes, while that spark drives him not to give up, to get better, to one day be able to spread his wings and take flight again.

Tai can sense Qrow itches to feel independent once more. In the morning, he brings books to his recovering guest, trusting the detective will enjoy being able to read on his own - anything ranging from cookbooks to novels his daughters used to devour. In the evening, he finds Qrow sprawled across the bed, half asleep in utter exhaustion with his face pressed to the pages he was reading. 

Slowly, gently, he extracts the book from Qrow’s hands and reads in a soft voice, his heart fluttering at the sight of the grateful smile on his guest’s lips as he listens, too eager to know how the narrative unfolds to complain. It is only after a few dozen pages that Qrow drifts to sleep, and Tai blows the candle on his bed stand to bid him good night.

That is only half the battle. The other half starts during nighttime. The sound of the detective screaming, thrashing in his sleep often wakes Tai, prompting him to rush to the other man’s bedside. 

“Nightmares?”

“Yeah.”

“Wish to talk about it?”

Memories of darkness, memories of red, red staining everything, staining his skin pale as bone, his broken hands, his bruised thighs, the clang of metal chains and the stench of sewers and the cackles of a voice and eyes like yellow embers and the touch of rough fingernails and the taste of blood that tastes like metal that tastes like there is no tomorrow and -

“Not really.”

The touch of Tai’s hand rummaging through Qrow’s hair as he dabs his clammy forehead with a cold cloth is an anchor to reality, to here, to now, for that’s all that matters, right here, right now, where Qrow is safe, and he can fall asleep. He whimpers when the blonde removes his hand, and just that sound, that broken, bruised, little sound is louder to Tai’s heart than a thousand bird songs.

“Stay?” the detective pleads, and the baker cannot refuse, can never refuse, will never refuse, lying down next amidst the messy bed sheets to the slightly trembling body while he waits for Qrow’s respiration to progressively even out.

* * *

“Are you still here to interrogate an injured man just to know if Callows is in any way associated with Salem?” the blonde snaps acerbly at the policeman, who leans against the door while Clover tends to Qrow’s wounds inside the room. 

“I am also here because I care,” James rectifies just as sharply. “Qrow and I have been working together for years, more or less officially. His methods are unorthodox and devoid of any sense of self-preservation, as you can see, but he is the cleverest detective I have ever met, and his heart is larger than most men can even fathom.”

“I know about that last part. He has been insisting on knitting scarves for my daughters, while he is hardly even in shape to eat soup with a spoon.”

Ironwood allows himself a small smile, before a shadow passes across his gaze again, schooling his features into a stern, stoic mask.

“I shouldn’t have allowed Qrow to go after Callows,” he says. “Qrow was a close friend of one of his victims. In his endeavour to catch that criminal, he stopped eating, stopped sleeping while working on the case, and eventually only left us a brief note before giving himself up as bait, knowing full well he would be captured and tortured, or even worse… I should have noticed. I should have stopped him, if only I wasn’t also overworking myself trying to track down Callows, in a desperate attempt to make Mantle a safer place.”

Tai is a lonely man, especially since his daughters left, and he can recognise loneliness in another man, he can recognise it now. It must be lonely at the top for someone like Ironwood, only rarely confronted by brilliant, stubborn men like Branwen and Ebi. It must be lonely enough for him to drown himself in his work in an attempt to fill the lonely void, for him to erect a stern facade not to be hurt because he’s lost hope others will approach him for any other purpose than hurting him and the people he strives to keep safe.

Ironwood seems like a man who needs a long, warm embrace, yet Taiyang fears he will be punched or shot down if he attempts such a gesture.

“You’re like a croissant, chief Ironwood. Tough on the outside, but soft inside. It’s a shame not many people get to see your more caring qualities.”

The raven-haired man produces a small, surprised gasp as the baker’s tawny hand gives him a comforting clap on the arm, not devoid of gentle warmth.

“I… thank you for your kindness.”

“No need to be so formal, Jimmy. Here, have a sausage roll.”

And with that, the blonde winks again, even though the police officer sees nothing comical or otherwise inconspicuous and worthy of a wink about a sausage wrapped in some puff pastry straight out of the oven.

* * *

Taiyang’s trusty corgi companion, Zwei, is accustomed to the scent of Clover as he visits to examine the progress of Branwen’s health. This time, after yapping happily at the doctor’s feet as soon as he passes the doorstep, the canine hobbles straight to Qrow’s bed. The detective demands a few tricks that the dog enthusiastically does, in exchange for some strips of bacon that Qrow somehow concealed from Taiyang within the bedsheets. 

“If you want to teach him to do a barrel roll, please refrain from demonstrating, that would really hurt your hip,” Clover teases, idly patting Zwei’s head as he entered the room, causing the corgi to merrily rub its fluffy body against his legs.

“Then maybe you should be the one who shows him, lucky charm,” Qrow jokes back.

“Maybe another time,” the doctor muses, inspecting the dusty floor and the bright white suit he put on for the day. “Let’s get to changing those bandages.” 

Clover washes his hands, rendering his touch cold as his fingers map out Qrow’s body, surveying the progress of lumps and bumps as the bruises slowly recede. His fingers run across the arch of a pallid neck, slowly unwrapping the gauze before appreciating the largely healed skin, only creased by scars as pale as the trace of tears under moonlight. 

“You look better today, just as you look better everyday,” the physician remarks, “not that you don’t always look great.”

“Then at this pace when I’m recovered I’ll look absolutely stunning,” Qrow deadpans, reclining into the pillow propped behind his bed.

Clover’s digits trail upward toward his patient’s brow, previously beaten and bloodied, now so slightly swollen it is hardly noticeable at all. He wonders how the stormy mind under that brow has healed, if the memories have returned to haunt Qrow, even as nightmares.

“You already look do,” Clover replies breathlessly. “You already look stunning, pretty bird.”

The doctor can sense the tremor in the brow beneath his fingers before taking his hand away. He can sense the detective tensing up, his hands clutching the bedsheets, his crimson eyes vacant as if staring at something or someone who isn’t really there, not right here, not right now.

“Qrow? I’m sorry. Was it something I said?”

A nod. A small nod. An infinitesimal nod, but it means the world to Clover. 

“It’s over now. You’re safe. You’re not alone, I’m here with you.”

And it’s easier said than truly accepted, but at least it’s something. It’s an anchor, a lifeline, a promise and a clarity, and at least that’s something. 

“I thought I almost remembered,” Qrow whispers, his gaze downcast.

Vermillion eyes stare over to the bed stand where lies a beautiful leather-bound notebook next to a quill and some ink, gifted by Ironwood in case the detective remembers. 

“It’s okay. You’ll remember, some day, but it doesn’t have to be now. Right now, you’re safe, and that’s all that matters.”

Qrow’s hands are hesitant at first, but as soon as they realise this is really, really real, that he’s really, really safe, he wraps Clover into a strong embrace, leaving the physician too stunned to react for several seconds. Only then does the doctor earnestly return the hug, dropping a small kiss atop feathery hair as he senses hot tears drip down his skin.

A weightlessness catches them like feathers in the wind - before reality comes crashing again, and Clover realises what he’s done. 

“I am so sorry, Qrow. That was extremely unprofessional of me and I shouldn’t -”

His voice trails off when the detective seizes his hand and kisses it. He can only watch wide-eyed as Qrow’s lips gently, hesitantly trail up his forearm, following the curved like of his vein and eliciting a flurry of tingles that trickle between each of his pores, down each of his nerves. 

He cannot believe this is real - for a man such as Qrow Branwen himself to be thusly inclined, and to be interested in Clover of all people, with so much competition around them. He cannot believe this is true, this is earnest, that Qrow’s mind has recovered enough to reciprocate the profound feelings that had blossomed during the doctor’s time at the detective’s bedside…

There is a sound of footsteps. Heavy boots against creaky wooden floors. And then, Ironwood leans in the doorsill, standing perfectly still. 

“Good morning, officer.”

“Good morning.”

Clover takes a deep breath. 

He knows the behaviour he was partaking in with Qrow is seen as unnatural. He knows it is illegal. And he knows Ironwood has to enforce the law, and will stop at nothing to do his job. James, despite all his tolerance for Clover’s flirting on the job, is a man of the law, unbending, unyielding. Yet, Clover respects him too much to lie to him or to run from him. Clover admires him too much not to let him decide, not to know that beneath that stainless steel exterior is a soft, beating heart, not to hope that James accepts him and reciprocates his affections…

“If you wish to make an arrest, James, I understand,” the doctor speaks quietly, “but then arrest both of us, for I fully reciprocate the feelings you saw Qrow express.”

Strangely, a sad smile seeps through Ironwood’s indecipherable mask. 

“I don’t wish to do such a thing… I merely hoped you would both care for me too, just as deeply as I care for you.”

Clover and Qrow exchange a brief glance, red eyes meeting green, perfect opposites, a perfect storm. 

“C’mon, then don’t stand alone over there,” the detective drawls, uttering the police chief in with a playful smirk. 

As soon as he enters the room, James finds himself pulled into a tight hug, dragging him as surely as gravity down to the bed, after which Zwei pounces onto his lap and he cannot move, should not move, never wants to move again. Clasping the lapel of his raincoat, Clover draws him in for a kiss squarely on the lips, clumsy and tentative as they clash in a battle for dominance before the good doctor yields with a shaky bout of laughter, deft fingers caressing the other man’s thick, soft beard. 

Refusing to be left out, Qrow reaches over to land a sound peck atop Ironwood’s mouth, which he reciprocates fervently before realising the action left the still recovering man exhausted, tumbling back among the pillows with a wide, content grin. 

The sound he makes against the mattress probably alerts Tai, who rushes in seconds later with a teapot and a tray of miniature baked goods. 

“Did you guys start without me?” The blonde prompts, a slight frown creasing his brow. 

As soon as he sets the tea and tray down, Zwei leaps out of James’s lap to bite onto the baker’s trousers and drag him to the bed, all but falling atop the three other men as Clover briefly cringes about Qrow’s recovering legs being unceremoniously crushed. But the detective promptly forgives the blonde with a kiss on the cheek, before attempting to hand feed the baker, the doctor, and the officer with mini croissants, probably as a revenge for being forcefully spoon fed for all these days. 

Now the score is set, now everything is fair, everything falls into place, and right here, right now, that is all that matters. 


End file.
